


this is all your own battle to win- this is your ship and you are the captain.

by unseeliekey



Category: New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Childhood Friends, Deceit, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, M/M, NO SHUT UP, PIRATES AND PRIVATEERS!!!!!!!, Period Typical Attitudes, Pirates, Trans Character, character/pairing/add tags will be uploaded as i go!, i did too much research im not using, is that NOT a tag wtf its the perfect dynamic, is this just detective/thief dynamic but ocean and morally complex?, lying
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:00:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unseeliekey/pseuds/unseeliekey
Summary: "Ah, how scary! The thing about that, Shuichi, is that you'd have to catch me first. And I don’t get caught. Ever. Not by demanding Spaniards-” A feint to Shuichi’s left- “Or by boring Frenchmen-” A strike to his right- “Or by uppity English privateers who think they can get the better of me. You’ve been following us for such a long time now, Shuichi. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?”Shuichi grits his teeth, falls for a feint and earns a strike at his cheek with it- a slash that’s so light it’s almost playful. Mocking. He retaliates by sending a lock of hair flying from Kokichi’s skull. “I did expect your tricks, le diable a damier,” he points out, guarding an obvious blow and forcing the pirate’s footwork back- proving his point.“Aha, so you did! But not all of them.” For an incredibly quick moment, their blades press together with such force that their bodies come together as well, curved edges snagging against one another as their shoulders press-And Kokichi jerks his head over his shoulder. “That would be my calling, captain Saihara.”--OR: friends to enemies to lovers. and pirates.
Relationships: Harukawa Maki/Momota Kaito, Oma Kokichi/Saihara Shuichi
Comments: 34
Kudos: 77





	this is all your own battle to win- this is your ship and you are the captain.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Teharissa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teharissa/gifts).



> umMMMMM okay some quick notes ahead of time!  
> This is loosely set in the early part of the golden age of piracy (Spanish Succession war type beat), mainly based in the Atlantic, with heavy involvement of the English and French navies.   
> The characters are still Japanese and the narrative acknowledges that and treats them as such! Xenophobia and racism are acknowledged within the story, but it isn’t at all the main focus- the author (hi) is white and mostly just trying to! Acknowledge the subject without writing stories that don’t need my input. On a similar note, colonialism is also addressed! It’s slightly more relevant to the story and there’s some moral quandaries raised about it- there are characters participating in the English/French navies, but I’ve stuck them all in firmly Atlantic areas and none of them are going to be Doing Heinous Shit. They’re assisting a system that is, but- they’re all morally opposed to it and aren’t directly involved and have little other choice! The colonialists are the bad guys fuck england fuck france.  
> Again this isn’t the focus of the story at all, but it’s present in the background and I feel like it’s a little remiss to place something in this setting and refuse to acknowledge any of it! This isn’t meant to be realistic or too heavy in terms of that subject matter, but I wanted to be responsible with the setting. I'd really appreciate feedback on this if I've written it in a way that makes anyone uncomfortable, or if it feels like I'm not giving certain subjects enough weight or playing on them too heavily, or anything really!  
> That said, there is also murder, classism, transphobia, homophobia, misogyny, power dynamics, discussions of cannibalism, torture, anglican guilt. Some of these things feature more prominently than others.   
> BUT there’s also sword fights. And dancing. And things blow up. And banter!! So I hope it’s enjoyable despite the messy stuff!  
> Oh oh also- most of the fic is spoken in English! Some other languages are used occasionally, but translation's provided in narration for the important bits. Most of it's just flavor.
> 
> (anyway hiiii teharissa i love you thank you for giving me pirate brainrot. now im extra late with my other fics. how dare you. i cant stop thinking about this.)

_ There was a single open blossom on the jasmine vines drooping from the wisteria outside the townhouse. It wasn’t supposed to bloom in this time of year, yet the scent of it caught at the edges of the murmured conversation.  _

_ Is it tainted by memory, or did he really look that young, and that pale, in the moonlight? They’d been the same height when they first met. There was a gap between them now, inches that promised to stretch further in the future. _

_ He wanted to see that change. He knew he couldn’t. _

_ “Don’t cry.  _ **_Girls_ ** _ cry.” _

_ “I- I know.” The words would have hurt from anyone else- and they hurt then, but for a different reason. Bruised hands on bruised eyes, before the water could fall too much. “You will not get into trouble, will you?” _

_ Frost covered the edges of the garden, the statues, the leaves. His hands were bare and uncovered and red with cold. They were, every night. “Have you ever seen me keep myself from it?” _

_ Something like a laugh, shaking in the night like it might freeze over, too. “I beg you.” _

_ And a sigh, in response, as if his teeth weren’t chattering. “What a burden to carry.” _

_ “Please carry it anyway.” _

_ And there was something in response there- a lie, a grand story, something that dissolved into the freezing night; and they should have met inside, as they often did, on the second floor or in the library with the fire roaring and the servants put to bed, inside and sequestered from winter’s bite, but they were outside, in the frost and the ache of the early morning, and both of them knew why. _

_ “When do you leave?” He spoke again, another muffled sniff. _

_ “Before the sun rises.” One crying, one smiling still- and it was dark in the garden, too dim to make out either face, but the slip of teeth were almost audible in his cheer. “You act like I never gave you any warning at all.” _

_ The sudden passion surprised them both- too much anger in a boy so young. “Am I not allowed to grieve?” _

_ Laughter in response, something like surprise hidden in the sound. “Why, you sound as if I’m dead! Are you really so eager to be rid of me?” _

_ Dead if he stayed. Damned if left. And they both knew he’d accepted damnation long ago. _

_ The boy with his fingers twitching in the cold, his silhouette hunched and thin in a way that ate into his very bones, who couldn’t stay. The boy with his robe drawn tight around his shoulders, crying because the night covered him like a gown, who couldn’t leave. _

_ They met, not every night but most- on and off, shared books and crumbs of information and crumbs of food. They lived parallel and conjoined, secrets murmured into the palms of hands and written in code. Messages tucked in tree stumps and between books and left in marketplaces neither were meant to attend. _

_ And they wouldn’t meet again, after this. _

_ “Kokichi-” _

_ “Shuichi-” _

_ They both went still.  _

_ The wind brushed through their cheeks and hair, turned their noses pink, and the cold of it all forced their hands back against their sides, subdued. A reminder of why this never would have lasted. _

_ False bravado, eyes shining. The heir took a step back, looking down at a face he couldn’t make out in the dark. “I know you’ll want for nothing in this world. You are… extraordinary. I’m certain your friends will admire you, if I’m certain of nothing else, and I- I know, truly, that I will never-” _

_ The sentence cut off in a muffled yelp as his companion threw his arms around him. A frozen moment passed before he returned the gesture, and the pair embraced slowly, hands meeting waists and napes of necks. _

_ Perhaps they would have said something more, if they’d been able to see each other’s faces, but neither had brought a candle.  _

_ “We’ll meet again,” a boy said, quietly, weeping into the other’s shoulder. He would deny it if it were seen. (It wasn’t.) _

_ “I’ll look for you,” the other replied. “On my travels. When I join the Crown.” _

_ “To hell with the crown.” Shared laughter, a quiet scolding, a withdrawal. They stepped apart.  _

_ “Take my ring.” Fumbling at his own fingers, stiff with cold, shaking a little.  _

_ Smaller hands batted his back into his sleeves, laughing again. “What am I going to do with a ring, Shuichi?” One of them- someone, fingers mingling too tight and not at all- slid their hand over a wrist, irreparably shy. “Is this some betrothal offer? And you still have yet to ask my father’s permission…” _

_ “You don’t have a father.” A quiet huff, and if there were any light at all, the red on his face would have been unbearable for both of them. “It’s a signet ring. To allow me to find you again.”  _ _   
_ _ When their hands met again, it was a little forcefully, gripping, fumbling along the knuckles until he found the slimmest pinky. When the ring slipped on, it was just a little too heavy. “Take it, I implore you.” _ _   
_ _ He did not let go. _

_ He did not pull his hand away.  _

_ “I’ll be robbed for it.” _

_ “Then hide it.” _

_ “They’ll assume I stole it myself.” _

_ “Hide it.” _

_ “I’ll pawn it.” _

_ For a moment, the fingers flinched, a blanche, and a following peal of laughter. The heir sunk into himself, slowly, disappointment. “...If you need to, then I’ll be glad to have helped you.” _

_ And there were too many responses to that-  _ **_you have helped me,_ ** _ or,  _ **_I’m sorry,_ ** _ or, the worst of all: _ _   
_ **_Come with me._ **

_ But he didn’t say any of them.  _

_ And they stood there, in the garden, with the frost creeping in, and threat of sun on the horizon, and a boat ready and waiting for a troupe of children who weren’t meant to join its crew, and would, anyway. _

_ One of them remembered the date perfectly- September the first, a week before his thirteenth birthday. The other didn’t have a birthday or a calendar, but assumed he was close in age, and somehow, even without the exact date, he knew which day it was every year when it crossed around. _

_ We’ll meet again, he said, but the years passed and they both looked for one another- _

_ And they didn’t. _

\--

They came in like devils. 

It was storming- vicious, brutal, the kind that bit through your sails and soaked the sides of the ship with salt. The kind of storm that made men pray- if not to Gods then to the creatures of the deep, because it was the kind of night that had you half-ready for death, no matter how brave you claimed to be.

Brine on the sails, in the cannon ports, in the oars and at the anchor, and the wind howled above them all. Men crossed the deck in groups, calling out in time, wishing they were anywhere but under the open sky. The men below were no better- rocked so violently that if the ship  _ were _ to submerge they wouldn’t know until it had.

Singing echoed from beneath the deck, from those lucky enough to be sheltering and not lucky enough to keep their supper down. Some prayer in itself, perhaps, one that those on deck could only echo. 

Captain at the helm, first mate by his side, sailors running to keep onboard with every rock of the waves.

There wasn’t any way to see them coming until it was too late.

_ “Capitaine! Danger!”  _

The cry from the crow’s nest came a half-dozen times before it was heard over the storm- Captain Angler, pulling ropes, barking orders, lifted his eyes to the sails, barely visible through the fog of the storm.

_ “Quel?”  _

And again, another cry that was split in half by lightning, the crack and roll of thunder above their heads. There wasn’t any time to pause and listen- not from those fighting with the rigging, trying to keep the sails at easy.

The captain called out again, booming above the thunder.  _ “Quel?” _

There was only one word said, and even screamed it was hard to hear, but the panic of it cut through just fine.

**_“Pirates!”_ **

The second Angler was able to fumble for his spyglass, it seemed one second too late.

The fog was dense and thick and heavy enough that by the time the second ship broke through, it was close enough that its flag was visible through the glass- white and black and red blotting out the sky. The vessel seemed only a few paces away, and gaining rapidly- smaller than their brigantine, masts up, and rocketing over the storming waves like she didn’t fear the devouring ocean any more than she feared a boat marked and owned by the Royal French Navy.

_ “Sacrebleu!” _

“Shall we outmaneuver, sir?” First mate, hovering at the helm, another sailor gripping the wheel like if he let go he’d slide right off the side. A gaping wave took its turn against the side of the ship, rocking them all to port like a lover you might throw out of bed.

_ “Non,” _ Angler muttered, tossing his spyglass aside- a sailor caught it, quickly, gripping it tight to his chest. “In weather like this?” He was already pacing down the steps to the main deck, a handful of men hurrying behind him. “Tell the crew below to ready the cannons! Armed soldiers on deck, and gunpowder at the ready- understood?” 

“What about the rain, sir?” 

A muttered curse, and another glance toward the back of the ship. “Divert course! We’ll cut them off before they reach us.”

The pirate’s ship was fast, yes, but they must have sacrificed gunpower for speed, and that would be their downfall. As soon as the navy vessel aimed canonside at them, they’d be down- a boat of their size wouldn’t have the weight for cannons the same way-

A  _ crack  _ hit their ship with the weight of a sledgehammer, the shot echoing through the air. 

-this one did.

The first cannon ball was met swiftly with another, and then another, and then-

“That’s impossible,” Angler breathed, shoving a sailor aside to grab at their spyglass and look for the boat again. “How are they firing so-”

He wasn’t able to finish his sentence before another shot was fired. The captain cursed and lifted the glass again, waving the crew behind him. “Arm yourselves!  _ Rapidement!” _

The crew dissolved apart, rushing for arms and guns and gunpowder, pushing each other along the deck and into the way of the rain beating upon them as the boat rocked. Their own cannons were quick to respond- but slower, far slower, how was the ship so quick?

Not just the ship but the devils upon it. The second they were within reach there was a cry as the pirates caught their ropes and swung onboard, dropping from the sky like a rapture and breaking into combat.

Angler sent the men around him forth, backing up to the helm to reassess their intruders. Men, woman- some young, some as old as him, swarming forth in bright, ornate clothes, ribbons in their hair and boots, girls in pants and men in certainly stolen navy coats. 

And then it caught his eye. The flash of a dark coat- the turn of black and white under the hem. 

_ “Le Diable à Damier,”  _ he breathed. It could be no one else- only one pirate on this side of the Atlantic wore checked print on the underside of their white coat. Only one pirate stood at the size of a child and smiled like one, too, red on his salt-white boots, on the ruffled collar at his neck.

The petit pirate glances over his shoulder- something glittering when he noted the captain’s uniform. Lifting the oversized hat from his head for an elaborate bow, he dips with mocking theatrics.  _ “Le seul et unique.” _ The one and only. He returns the hat to its place on his head soon after, draws his cutlass once more. “I’m flattered you’ve heard of me.” 

English, now- they say  _ le Diable à Damier  _ speaks in tongues. That he licks the blood from his blade and laughs as he quarters his enemies. They say his mother’s a sea-witch and his father was a pirate, too- they say he’s still a boy and they say he has eyes that aren’t like any child’s at all and they say that every ship he crosses loses all her valuables and half her men.

_ Le Diable à Damier  _ is almost smaller than expected, and Angler thinks of dwarf pirates and doesn’t bother to hide his scorn. He draws his own sword. “I’ll send you back to the hell you crawled from.”

“How frightening! I might almost be intimidated- if I couldn’t see your hands shaking.”

Angler’s hands weren’t shaking. He tightened his grip anyway, lip curling.  _ “Le salaud.” _

_ “Faible cœur.” _

Their swords met with a sound like sparking. Angler tried to pressure the devil- he was taller, broader, and stronger in every sense of the word, and the- the  _ child  _ couldn’t stand to block his blows; they both knew that.

_ Le Diable à Damier  _ didn’t allow him that, however- darting back for every thrust forward, parrying instead of guarding. He was fast- almost like a fencer rather than a soldier, but he knew how to use the curve of his cutlass wickedly- catching the side of Angler’s coat, slashing at his arms, through the stiff fabric of his jerkin, cutting against the side of his face. All these quick, long cuts- thin and never too deep but stretching over his skin with sharp, white pain, distracting and impossible to track.

The pirates pillaged like their leader fought- fast and all-consuming.

Captain Angler was an accomplished sailor and swordsman- he’d fought pirates before and won, had them beg for mercy and turned it down with the curve of his blade. He hadn’t lost a fight in a very long time- but he hadn’t fought an opponent who blew sand in his eyes and kicked at his footwork and produced a dagger from the strap on his ribboned thigh to sink, deep and rough and debilitatingly, into his left shoulder.   
It felt like a handful of minutes before most of their crew were scattered on the deck, stripped out of their own clothing.

“This is a navy vessel,” he spat, doubled at the waist, hands tied with his own rigging, anger and indignation boiling in his gut. “You won’t get away with this in European waters.” 

_ Le Diable à Damier  _ taps the bloodied edge of his cutlass against his cheek, play-thoughtful. “Ah, but monsieur-” And he doubles at the waist, leans down until their faces are a breath apart. “I just did.”   
He straightens up again, resting elegantly on the length of his cutlass. “Bring the strong ones with us. And….” Scanning the crowd, he sets his gaze on James, the first mate, and his mouth curves up. “Him.”

James struggles, spitting insults as one heavyset pirate with eyes like coal scooped him over his shoulder like he was a kitten. He screamed, spat insults, wailed, told the pirates he’d sooner die than join them.

The brigands only laughed at that. “As if we’d want bastards like you,” one crowed.

“Then what do you want?” Angler demanded, his chin crushed between the deck.

The devil paused, considering. 

“Food,” he says. “We left you half your provisions, so we’ll have to make up with it in meat.”    
And the devil smiles, but the darkness that shadowed his face was enough to have a grown man weep. “I’ll save your first mate for last. I’ll let him eat the others first, maybe- fatten him up for his own turn. And I’ll start with his limbs, one at a time- I’m a generous captain, sir. I’ll share with him, don’t you worry. Even after I’ve cut loose his tongue and swallowed that myself, I’ll keep pushing his own flesh down his throat until his body gives way.”

James, hauled still over a pirate’s shoulder, heard this and began to struggle with twice the vigor, the fear in his voice ripping through the sky as the thieves laughed and set off- dragging treasure and men and any sense of pride in Angler’s heart with them. 

That was the last time he ever set out to sea- James’ wailing haunted him for years after.

\- - 

Two weeks later, Kokichi set foot on land for the first time in far, far too long.

It’s a long way from the Atlantic to the Pacific, even at full knots and continual travel even through the worst of storms. The crew were starting to get restless- trading the same doubloons over the same card games, over and over again, and provisions, naturally, were running low. (Kokichi was a democratic captain. He ate the same meals as the others, in the same galley, which is why he’d had the delightful experience of finding a worm in his soft, wilting apple and proceeding to scream like a child in front of half his crew.) A few good sea-battles had kept them going; there was nothing more satisfying than eating a good meal after days of biscuits and knowing you stole it right from the mouths of the French Navy. 

(Their last target had earned him a little skepticism, before they’d flown through with it- but he’d allowed those who were afraid to remain below deck, on guard, and after every single sailor had swung back safe and holding armfuls of arms and fresh provisions, faith in him was restored. As always.)

Arms, provisions, and a handful of charming, uneaten hostages. 

“Lift your feet,  _ fleur de liars _ !” He yelled, perched dangerously on the bowsprit and gesturing to the crew beneath him- and more to the unwilling hostages they hauled forth in chains. Kokichi snapped his new, shining spyglass into its comparted form and let it swing back to his hip, jumping off the side and moving to follow the others onto land after checking that the anchor was docked well. He caught the eye of one of his more trusted companions as he leaped down, and met her with a grin. “I don’t see what has them so morbid. I would be  _ thankful  _ if some kind seafaring gentleman offered me a voyage to a lovely island like this.”

“Even if that kind gentleman repeatedly told you all about how you were set to be devoured?” The girl- Diamonds, a natural at gambling and even better suited to controlling a vessel, smoothed her hair back and gave him a smile of her own. 

They fell into step naturally, moving down the boarding plank to the port. Already, merchants and fishermen were moving to crowd the docks, eager to trade goods and stories with the wayward travellers. A few called Kokichi by name, others meeting other members of the crew- members of his ship had both come from and retired to this particular island in the span of Kokichi’s career. The town here was large, vibrant, friendly- and just dirty enough to keep a good secret. 

_ Le Diable à Damier,  _ King of Pirates, Kokichi, clasped his hands innocently as they walked. “‘Tis just a game in good fun, hellion- I don’t see why they all have to take such offense to it.”

“Lying is a sin,” she replied, winking one sly eye. 

“Why then, god forgive me!” He replied, pouncing on her back like a spry monkey and sending them both tumbling, laughing, as the pirate crew spilled into town.

Kokichi sent the group out with free reign- abide the laws of the town, keep out of trouble, drink and gamble and seek bed companions and remember that they embark again in only a handful of days. He’d love to join them, turning down about twenty offers of wine from both his crew and locals, staring enviously at the roads that lead to markets, turning his face to the open sun and letting it soak through his skin. 

Alas, however, Kokichi’s friends tend to be as impatient as he is. 

Nine most trusted pirates (and what a contradiction) at his heels, Kokichi passes the more entertaining areas of the town until he reaches his target- the church, looming ahead with its glass glittering in the sun, native carvings interspersed with figures of angels. It’s rare he finds himself in a place of worship without the overwhelming urge to set it just a little bit on fire, but this chapel is an exception- he instead wants to rob it of everything golden inside. (He has yet to manage this.)

Today, it seems, would be another missed opportunity, because the very priestess he’s seeking is already flying out from the open doors the second they turn into the street. 

She races down the paths, and the second they see her it seems like even the carts in the road give pause, staring at the girl with her bare feet beating the walking-path, loose linen dress, hair flying behind her.

“Kokichi!”

Angie’s skin feels hot when her arms wrap around his neck as if she’s attempting to strangle him, squeezing him tight against her. Kokichi laughs in response and returns the gesture, glancing over her shoulder to give his companions an amused look. She smells like coconut, as always. “Did you miss me?”

The girl withdraws, still beaming, and reaches up to press his cheeks together- the King of Pirates, treated like a child. Someone muffles a laugh. “You promised me workers,” she says playfully. “And you’re late.”

“The weather was frightful, Angie,” he responds, muffled between his crushed lips. “Take pity on a wretched sailor like myself, wouldn’t you?”

“Wretched indeed!” She laughs, patting his once before releasing him and moving to hug the closest pirate to her. “I hope you chose healthy ones.”

“You make me sound like a slaver,” Kokichi responds, wrinkling his nose. “If you don’t pay them, I’ll take them back.”

Moving from one member of the group to another, occasionally remarking on their bodies in a way that shouldn’t be appropriate for  _ any  _ young lady, let alone a  _ priestess,  _ Angie waves a hand at him. “We’ve plenty to be doing in the church. They’ll have their pick of work, of pay, of accommodation…. You’ll pay upfront for that last part, yes?”

Kokichi smiles sweetly at her. “For Frenchmen?  _ Non, non, mon amie.  _ I’m sure you’ll find somewhere to slot them in.” 

She smiles back just as kindly and proposes a counter-offer, which he rejects with increasing pleasantness as he calls her an avarice-ridden whore, which she laughs at and tells him he’s sinful, and asks if he’s repented recently, to which he responds with a lie about one of his latest sins, and the conversation circles from there- bright smiles and cutting words and the laughter of both Kokichi’s friends and Angie’s companions as the group moves to the church to discuss the future.

His arrangement with Angie is complicated, the sort of thing that relies on the promise of favors paid in future and a reputation built over time. It’s made more complicated by the fact that he doesn’t exactly understand Angie’s role in her own culture- he knows there’s a network of governments on the island, although no Queen, and he knows that a brief English occupation left them with a strong Anglican presence- but that their priests are women and hedonism is not a subject of shame here. Most importantly, he knows that Angie says things, and people listen.   
Kokichi keeps the colonizers that float a little too close to her island busy, and she allows him to keep what he takes from them. They trade information and goods and she graciously hosts him and his more intimate crew when they stay. Kokichi brings her gifts and receives gifts in return.   
Kokichi also tends to drop off his hostages here.

It’s hard to be a pirate and avoid violence. Impossible, actually- Kokichi’s shot his fair share of sailors, shattered bones and sunk provision holds and slashed through officer after officer. He does not kill, though- not personally, not his trusted crew, and not the others, when they can help it.   
(They can’t always help it. He knows there are people on his ship who have killed. He knows some of them think little more of taking a life than squashing a flea. That they only obey that command while on his ship- and that if they slip away, they’ll spill that secret and go right back to the path of most convenience.)   
He has a reputation, though, and reputations are important, particularly for someone of Kokichi’s position. Most people assume he’s killed hundreds. Anyone he fights he leaves terrified and humiliated- because for every person who’s heard a rumor about his horrifying ways, there’s a dozen more who know of him from years back and wouldn’t hesitate to strike at anything they saw as weak. 

So he pretends to kill but merely incapacitates, and says he takes their corpses for food, and he takes the live ones, too, and then-    
He drops them off for Angie, whose church is rapidly expanding and who has a bustling network of trade and resources, who speaks English clear as a bell and is eager to house and offer stable livings to the men thrown her way.

Kokichi is aware it’s not entirely moral to drop a sailor in a foreign island that speaks a language they don’t, to strip them of all their titles and ban them from ever returning to their previous lives and identities, but he’s never claimed to be moral. Just not a murderer.

It usually works out, anyway. If they don’t behave, they get to rot in jail. 

_ “Où suis-je? Où suis-je?!”  _

One of the hostages- sleeping when they carried him out- wakes in a daze and cries out to one of the priestesses moving through the room.

She sighs, planting her hands on her hips. “Let’s get these men to a translator,  _ oui?” _

\- -

Stepping into the High Court of Admiralty of Britain was always a dour experience.

The building was busy as always- networking, rushing to and fro, books carried, orders called, meals delivered. Constant motion, swarming through the base of the building to the upper networks- maps hung from walls adjusted, servants coursing through to deliver messages and lower sailors calling to one another through the cramped rooms. It was a haven of discussion and exploration- discussion of seized treasure, new territories under the crown, the ever-present Succession wars bubbling in the background.

For Shuichi, it was a reminder of failure- and of just how draining it was to speak to his family.

He gave a quick bow of the head in thanks to the servant guiding him along the arched, high halls until he reached the floor of offices- each busy, the hum of conversation audible from outside their walls. He didn’t need the guide- Shuichi had been walking through this building since he was a child. Had worked for, and in it, for a time.   
A brief time.   
He knew the steps to the office he was looking for like he knew the imprint of his own signet, or the way the carved insignia of the commodore pressed against his fingertips when he touched the placard of the door.

There was no one to watch him trail his fingers along the name painted over it, so he allowed himself a moment before he knocked, tucking his hands behind his back after he did. 

“Enter.”

The man sitting at the desk was a little old for his position, finishing a scrawling letter in distinct print. Ornate in furniture and simple in design, many a trophy was scattered across the room, gifted from government officials over the years, little symbols of dedication to the court and Crown. 

“You requested me, sir.”

Shuichi’s uncle glanced up from his letter and marked it off with a quick signature. “Shuichi,” he said in greeting, gesturing at the chair across from him. “Please, sit.”

Shuichi obliged, quietly tucking himself up and watching the man fold the letter neatly. “Thank you,” he said, and then paused, trying not to fidget- which was difficult, in a place like this. 

Painfully, his uncle made no motion to speak as he folded the letter, nor as he reached for an envelope, nor as he placed the message inside. In fact, he didn’t motion to speak at all until he’d sealed it with wax, carefully pressing their family ensignia to the seal.   
It was only as he lifted the letter and wafted it slowly to dry the wax that he also lifted his eyes. Shuichi had to fight the urge to look away. “First, I wished to ask if you were well.”

“Oh.” Shuichi paused, just a moment too long. “Very well, uncle. Thank you.”

(Shuichi had not been “very well” in quite some time. On a good day, his tendency was toward a “temporarily pleased”.)

“I heard you’ve submitted a notable bounty from Spain for condemnation.” His uncle reached for another sheet of paper, flicked his quill, and freed Shuichi from the unyielding pressure of his eyes. “Your father was pleased.” 

Of course- if Shuichi actually did anything notable for the war effort, there was still the possibility he might become a Francis Drake figure- he doubted his parents minded if he were notorious, as long as he were respected. As long as he was recognized.    
Unfortunately, he’d never wanted that- and wanted it even less, now. 

“We ran into some ships around the Caribbean,” he murmurs in response, bowing his head again. “They were merchants. It wasn’t any struggle.”

Merchants, trading goods innocently- and Shuichi had robbed them blind, under the blinking eye of the hot sun. He’d let them live, left them their vessel and their provisions and set them home, but it’s hard to think of that as any kind of  _ mercy  _ with the amount of gold he’d taken.   
Stolen. (But the gold was stolen by the merchants. Shuichi doesn’t need guilt over blood money if he didn’t spill the blood himself.)

“I’m glad to see you turning in a profit,” the commodore nodded, etching out a half-dozen paragraphs in quick, neat gestures. “I have a request unrelated to the war, however.”

“You do?” It wasn’t the first time Shuichi had received a request from his uncle- occasionally to ensure safe passage of accompanying vessels, or to assist the military in a scrape along Spanish territories, or to… commission a certain group of ships that were said to be full of gold.    
But with the Succession wars thriving and the budget of them pulling the country tight, if it wasn’t related to war, then it must…

His uncle glanced up from the letter a second time, his face grim. “I know your fascination with pirates well.”

“I- I wouldn’t call it a fascination,” Shuichi explained, hand twitching in place. “Someone has to take care of them.”

Whenever England prospered, pirates rapidly increased in scale and in trouble for the crown, so it wasn’t much of a surprise for his uncle to request… assistance, regarding them. The navy had busied itself with the war, and didn’t have ships or men to spare waiting out for individual ships determined to make a nuisance of themselves- so Shuichi, in private command of his own vessel and authorized to treat the sea like a hunting ground, had a tendency to track them down for the crown. It wasn’t the most profitable form of privateering, but their bounties often lead to further treasure, and it assisted his uncle’s reputation.   
And Shuichi refused to target innocent ships.   
Pirates were violent, effective thieves, wielding stolen ships to steal further supplies, disrupt morale, and kill men who committed no crime except the transport of cargo. It seemed there was no way to expand trade routes without increasing the rate of them, and the depths to which they’d sink. They were guilty men who chose to live a life of theft and violence.

It was just always uncomfortable to be reminded that Shuichi wasn’t much better than them, himself.

_ “A privateer,” his father had said, “truly isn’t such a bad position to be in- you’ll have your own vessel, and crew, which you’re in full control over, and you’ll receive commission based on what you achieve and capture.” _ _   
_ _ “Capture,” he’d echoed blankly, staring at his own hands.  _

_ Awkwardly, his father shifted, adjusting the papers between them. “You’re authorized for use of force as long as you have your marque. There’s been many a privateer who made a good name for himself.” _

_ But Shuichi had never made a good name for himself, only taken a good name and ruined it, and now he was little better than a pirate himself. _ _   
_ _ As long as he had his marque, he could say he was lawful, but not good.  _

“... The French call him  _ le Diable à Damier.” _

Drawing himself out of the memory, Shuichi presses a hand to his mouth. “The Checkered Devil,” he repeats, fumbling through his own memories. “Yes, I’ve heard of him. I believe he calls himself the King of Pirates, as well… Why is he causing such problem?” To be honest, Shuichi had almost thought the figure was a falsehood or a joke or a ghost story- details on them were conflicting. Some sources claimed they were female, others male, young, old, pale, tanned, everything in between. The rumors ranged from devil worship to a shape-shifting creature from the sea to a boy playing at piracy. The name usually came up in relation to a more well known figure-  _ The Lucky Buccaneer,  _ a pirate who’d fisted chaotic but unceasing control of most of the Caribbean for the past nine years. The two were rivals, of some kind. If the King of Pirates even existed.

Apparently, though, he did. Shuichi’s uncle rolled out a map over the writing desk, circling certain areas of the ocean. “He struck a French vessel in English waters- French  _ Navy.  _ I have records saying he robbed every logged provision, every weapon and barrel of gunpowder, killed a good twenty men and kidnapped the first mate to cannibalize.” 

“Cannibalize??” Out of all the rumors to be true,  _ that  _ was?

A grim nod. “The French are taking it as a personal slight, and the cabinet have agreed we need to monitor relations with them carefully. It would be good if the pirate was tried and his bounty split between the two countries.”

Foreign relations. Delightful. This certainly wouldn’t end with anyone dead. “Where has he been active?”   
“Between the Atlantic and the Asian ocean, centralized in these areas…”

Shuichi blinked and leaned over to stare at the marked areas of the map. “Not the Caribbean?”

His uncle gestures over the map, registering some mild frustration. “There’s no record of the ship or the captain showing up in the Pacific, or anywhere warmer. It seems he’s circling the Atlantic, just looking to strike at chaos.”

“...He’ll have to be stopping somewhere to deposit goods,” Shuichi mumbles, scanning the map with only half a mind for it. He’d need a port to dock in, somewhere, even if he were switching ships or donning disguises, and France and England clearly weren’t open to him. Narrowing that down would be useful, though- Navy battles are unpredictable and always end with men dead and costly damage to ships, especially when pirates are involved. Shuichi’s never seen the point in limiting naval strategy purely to the sea- it makes far more sense to try and track this captain down to a stopping point and catch him off guard. If they engage him on land, that will upset the crew but keep them safe. If they engage him on the sea… he won’t have the element of disguise. “Is there a description of him?”

A wry smile spreads over the commodore’s face.  _ “Petite,” _ he says, gesturing with thumb and forefinger. “The Spaniards said he looks like a child- a possessed one. The French say he’s gaudy, too- checkers on the inside of his coat and ruffles all over.”

“A small, checkered devil,” Shuichi replies, blankly. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to picture this man-eating devil.

His uncle leans over, withdrawing an intricate pipe from an arched drawer on the side of his writing desk. “Eastern, they said- one of the post captains said he had the same eyes as myself, but you know that doesn’t mean anything in terms of nationality. But he spoke perfect French.”

“An Eastern pirate in the Atlantic.” Shuichi brought a hand to his mouth in thought. China’s trade routes had never had any difficulty spreading over most of Asia through the land, although the nomadic nature that made its trade so successful had taken a major hit during the plague and in the ensuing conflicts as the regional sectors began to crystalize. He tended to try and pay attention to international affairs, and he hadn’t heard anything about an increase in piracy in the area, and building off that- “Speaking French.”

The commodore is a smart man, and Shuichi gets most of his analysis from his side of the family. “It’s generally assumed that he’s come from the East to terrorize us- I’ve heard him called  _ wokou.  _ Dwarf pirate.” His face twists in clear distaste as he draws another connection between areas of the map. “I find that doubtful.”

Shuichi nodded. Relations between Japan and England were currently… poor, but their family had been substantiated in the queen’s country for two generations now, and Shuichi wasn’t the only child of immigrants he knew.    
(He knew two- one he’d met a year prior. One he’d met what felt like a lifetime ago, with a smile like the crack of a whip and a glitter in his eyes.)   
Shuichi shook the thought away, drifting back to the map. “I doubt any of the far East have enough interest in the Spanish war to interfere, particularly with… a singular pirate.”

“Ah, here too.” Blank withdraws another sheet, pipe balanced between his teeth as he rolls it out. “His flag.”

The gaudiness is more apparent here- The standard black of piracy (a death ship- but one willing to accept surrender) with a pair of overlapping diamonds in the center, marked with a white and red design that’s hard to make out.

Shuichi collected the map, the symbols, a letter addressed from his uncle outlining his plan and confirming his marque, the beginnings of a plan forming in his mind. The pirate was flashy, and had areas he’d been recorded sailing in more than once. Shuichi would track and intercept him- he’d need a fast ship, to avoid the mistakes of the French, and records copied of their entire battle, and a slightly larger crew of skilled fighters. They’d move to circle the east Atlantic, and they’d check in at ports laid out ahead of time for further information on the pirate-devil’s whereabouts. The chase would take a few weeks, but if they were slow and deliberate, they’d catch up before the King of Pirates realized he was being chased at all. 

“Captain.”

Shuichi, arms full of gathered plans, paused at the door, half-opened, half-out. “Commodore?”

There’s a pause. Neither his father nor his uncle have ever been particularly emotive people. His uncle watches him slowly before speaking, a cloud of smoke curling around his grey eyes. “You’re a good captain, Shuichi.”

Shuichi doesn’t think there are any good captains at all, in honesty- and certainly not him, who’s watched boys placed into his care die and spent weeks lost due to poor navigation and pointed a pistol at foreign ships and men just like him who happen to be waving the wrong flag, and who’s fired it. 

But unlike other captains, he does think he’s learned, and with God willing, he’ll ensure the people caught up in this feud will be safe. 

Even the pirates, if they’re willing the part from the side of their captain.

\--

“Don’t leave my side, understood?”

“Yes, capt- Kokichi!”

Returning to England was always a mix of nostalgia, humor, and a healthy dose of paranoia. It didn’t help that lovely, young master Spades was accompanying him onshore and into the slums of the city. Spades was a wicked aim with a pistol, capable of taking a man’s shooting shoulder out within seconds of him lifting his arm, and was almost entirely responsible for the speed of the cannons on every vessel that passed through their hands, as well as other general ship upkeep- and more importantly, one of the nine members of the crew that Kokichi  _ trusted _ . He was competent, taller than his captain by almost a foot, and the tender age of fifteen and miraculously naive despite his lifestyle. 

Currently, he was staring admiringly at the streetwares and gamblers crowding the corners of a market alleyway, as if this port wasn’t one of the filthier places in all of Britain. As if he hadn’t been here before.

Kokichi sighed, taking his protege by the elbow and gently directing him out of the path of a particularly violent horse and cart.

“Watch it, you sons of whores!” The man atop it roared, shaking his fist as the horses rocketed past. 

“Lily-livered wretch of a placenta!” Kokichi shouted back, meeting Spades’ sheepish laughter with a grin all sharp, yellow teeth. “Come along, dearest, let’s avoid the rabble. We’ve an old friend to meet.” 

“Do you think the others have found anything interesting in the markets?” Spades responded, half-wit and genius all at once, staring distractedly at the scene around him. Kokichi guided him off the roads again.

Clicking his tongue, he glanced around, adjusting the jacket at his stomach. (He had a dagged tucked into the tight fitting on either side of his waist and boy were they digging into his ribs.) “Hm… I s’pose they must have found something to entertain themselves with. Yes, some kind of spellbook, I imagine, filled with marvellous, terrible acts- the blackest magic, the deepest horrors- Spades, you  _ monkey,  _ off the road.”

“Sorry, sorry!” The thief trips over his gangly ankles, slipping on a suspicious smear in the gutter and almost getting run over in the process. Kokichi, arms folded behind his head, watches with amusement as he immediately glances over his shoulder again. “...They’re selling egg tarts over there.”

“I’ll steal you one after the meeting, mm?” Kokichi, King of Pirates, turns down another alley- thankfully, away from the mainroad, and gestures his crewmate after him. Spades follows like a pup after his master, and the two of them step away from the crowds and down a much quieter street. 

The hum of music is audible even through the stone walls arching overhead, and Kokichi can feel the violin seeping through him as they turn further through the cold stones of the roads. If the rest of the port doubles as slums, this is the rot of the city, seeping through its framework, dusty and soft to the touch- deadly if you linger too long around it.

Kokichi passes the whorehouse and the butcher and the blocks of houses stuffed full of crying children and sadder adults until he reaches the tavern at the end of the street, the sound of a fiddle leaking through its walls and the sound of singing echoing around it. He took Spades’ arm as they entered, and the pair of them passed through without a single batted eye- two young boys out to visit a lady in the slums.

Kokichi smoothed down the fringes of jerkin as they approached the barkeep- ready to serve despite it being barely evening, and after sliding a few coins over and a written note, was passed a bottle of wine and a room number with no further suspicion.

He popped the cork as they ascended the stairs, taking a sniff and then pretending to gag. “I’ve been spoiled on champagne and rum, Spades,” he bemoaned. “This vintage is so  _ terribly  _ bitter.”

“Well, it  _ is  _ free,” Spades pointed out. “...and likely watered down.”

“Disgusting. If I taste vinegar when I take a sip, I won’t be surprised in the slightest.” Kokichi checks the room number again, raps twice on the door, and then shoves it open without waiting for a response. “Hoping to God you’re dressed, wench!”

The cry that greets him is as bawdy as its owner, ricocheting from a stack of barrels and suitcases. “You  _ wish  _ you were lucky enough to see me out of corset, fairy!”    
Kokichi has few allies outside of his crew- three at most- and unfortunately for him two out of three are garishly-dressed women with superiority complexes. 

Miu Iruma, whore’s daughter, lover of medicines and tonics, and genius inventor, sits sprawled across her sitting table in her ‘business’ room- which she allegedly keeps separate from her warehouses and workspaces, but that doesn’t stop her from keeping blueprints scattered over the floor and tables, parts of machinery and the smell of oil soaking through the room. She’s half-dressed, which means she clearly isn’t planning on leaving any time soon, and barely looks up from her project as Kokichi enters, wine in hand. She double-takes, however, upon spotting it, and spits a handful of bolts from her mouth as she beckons him over, brushing down her split skirts with a ruffled kind of gesture. “Good for something at last! Bring it over here, you bitch’s son.”

“Where are your manners?” Kokichi scolds her, a half-formed pout on his features as he tucks the bottle behind his back. Spades pulls the door shut politely behind them, greeting Miu with a polite, somewhat flustered wave.

The inventor/mechanic/shipskeep rolls her eyes as she slides from her table and crosses over. She reaches to pull the bottle from his hidden hands, but Kokichi slides a dagger up against her throat before she can reach it- which results in a shriek of dismay and the wretch of a girl pulling at her own face, flushed as a cat in heat. 

“D-d-don’t you dare to p-point a thing like that at a lady!” She hisses, eyeing the blade suspiciously. Kokichi grins at her and twirls it around his fingers before sliding it back into the straps of his jerkin. 

“What lady?” He asks her sweetly, and then, before she can get too offended, shoves the bottle to her fidgeting hands. Kokichi takes a few steps past her into the room, glancing around as if to make himself at home. He folds his arms behind his head. “Lord, this is the worst shipwreck you’ve buried yourself in yet.”

Miu seemed unsure if she should be pleased about the wine or offended at the insult. She settled for begrudging, and moved to lift three (dirty) glasses from her dresser, filling each with wine. “Income’s tight, boy. I can’t afford  _ your _ parts and a decent place and rent my workshops- which I’m wanting payment on, upfront,” she adds, jabbing a dangerous finger at him. A lock of dirty blonde tumbles from the bun in her hair, and she swipes it back, leaving a mar of soot on her cheek. “In  _ gold,  _ ‘Kichi, not imported tea or whatever-”

“How about silk?” Kokichi asks smoothly, gesturing Spades forward. The pirate ducks his head a little, avoiding Miu’s scrutiny, and lifts the bag at his side.

“May I?” He asks, gesturing at the table in the center of the room. Miu rolls her eyes and waves him forth, but she can’t hide her interest. All three of them watch as he opens the bag, withdrawing a roll of fabric and a small chest from within. 

Kokichi waits with bated breath, all poised piracy. This is the best part.

Slowly, Spades unrolls the draw of cloth- just enough to reveal the fabric tucked underneath. Miu lets out a soft breath.    
Patterned silks- hues of blush pink, vibrant blue, yellow and almost gauzy. Colors so bold they’d look at home in a royal dance, sheets of shining material- enough for three dresses, and cuttings left over, styled for a lady and ready for the height of fashion. 

And then the chest- Spades withdraws a key and slots it to the lock, opening the simple red box. 

It’s small, but filled with gold- and over it, a handful of jewels that put the silks to shame. Rubies, sapphires in pink and blue, dazzling emeralds inlaid in butterfly broaches- and beneath them all, gold, clean and shining in hue.

“...There’s not that much gold,” Miu says, after a moment, but the tone in her voice says he’s won. Kokichi grins to himself.

“You know the gemstones themselves are worth just as much,” he purrs to her, crossing over to join the pair by the table- they part, almost naturally, for him to reach out and draw a string of beads from the chest. “Look- have you ever seen anything as fine as that down here?”

“They’re obviously stolen, fool,” she spits, but her blue eyes have turned green with envy, fixated on the sheen of the necklace. “You’re just giving me the work of selling them!”

“You could always keep them,” Kokichi replies, turning to hold the set up to her neck. Wordlessly, Spades moves behind her, and Kokichi lets the beads slip through his fingers for the pirate to clasp behind her throat.    
Miu swallows.   
“Why, don’t they suit her marvellously?” Kokichi crows, grabbing her by the arm. “Miu, Miu, old friend… come admire yourself in the glass!” 

He drag her over to the mirror even as she splutters, Spades offering soft compliments with a teasing grin, the pair of them flanking her. 

Miu stares at herself. Spades also stares. Kokichi admires his own reflection. 

“...Ggh! Fine! I’ll- I’ll settle for this, but.. But know I’m doing you a favor!”

Miu’s arrogance is so easy. 

“Wonderful!” Kokichi claps his hands childishly, bouncing off the ground to throw his hands up. “Let’s all celebrate!” He picks up two glasses, sets one in Miu’s hands as she continues to preen, and passes the other to his lovely Spades.   
He leaves the third. He wasn’t lying when he said it smelled awful.    
The pirate king spins on his heel, arms spread outwards, and beams at his favorite inventor. “You can begin by showing me my toys.”

The next set of hours is spent reviewing blueprints and designs, and each invention Miu unveils from her cases and closets and barrels is, while not quite as thrilling, almost as delightful as the rush Kokichi gets when he uncovers real treasure. Spades takes her notes and asks questions about upkeep- they run through guns, cannon wheels, adjusted pistols and intricate clockwork spyglasses- pocket watches and tools for temperature and gold inspection, tiny microscopes and great, intimidating machines Miu promises will hurl balls of pure fire through the sky. 

They barter further, and haggle more, and Kokichi pins more and more jewellery to Miu’s bodice despite her snapping she’s half-dressed, and the wine drains and eventually, at the end of it all, they’ve come to an agreement.

“When do you sail?” Miu asks, after they’ve shaken hands and she’s been passed the key to the little chest, pulling her hair down and bunching it back up into a knot at the top of her head.

“Tomorrow, sunset. Discreetly,” he replies, all sly smiles. “I’ll send someone over to deal with the cargo at midday.”

_ “Je- _ sus, son of Mary. You couldn’t have given me any more time than that?”

“Oh, heavens no!” He replies, smiling wider. “Goodbye, Miu. I do hope the next time I see you, you don’t look quite so pathetic and hideous.”

“Oh, you-” she lunges for him, but he darts away, cackling, grabbing Spades by the hand and dragging him forcefully through the door.    
Successful business meetings aside, Kokichi laughs delightedly as he drags his crewmate- now minus one extremely valuable bag of possessions- through the city. He buys him an egg tart, regroups with a few of his others- finds Clubs in the middle of a brawl (winning, naturally), Jack and Mage bartering their latest stash of tea in a high end store, Hearts and Diamonds at the horse races, flirting and betting a little too much. Scattered through the city, they pass other crewmates and greet them with winks and sly nods and a few bars of a ballad, and then scatter again before the force get a little too suspicious. 

The day passes in flashes- hot, city life, making the most of the land and the fresh food and the people who stare at them like they’re a spectacle- foreigners who aren’t foreign, men and women and everything in between dancing in a little theater troupe like it’s the middle of the restoration. 

The day ends in a tavern, Kokichi and his closest nine regrouping to drink together. It’s dimly lit, and they’re gambling cards at the table- suits assigned to their namesakes, the glint of gold in the center of a closed off circle, occasionally dragging in a stranger to swindle them blind or drag them to one of the backrooms. There’s an argument over the sixth round of drinks, which Kokichi disperses by jabbing a dagger through the wood of the table with a snarl- and then telling everyone to be gentlemen and draw straws.

(He loses on purposes, and bears their laughter with false tears.)

Kokichi is carrying a tray of drinks back for his lovely crewmates, just a little too merry, when it happens.

“It” to mean that someone stumbles into him from the back, and that if Kokichi hadn’t spent the past seven years of his life on and off ships that were never steady for more than a day, he would have sent ten glasses of ale shattering to the floor.

As it stands, his cabin boy days hold him up, and all that happens is he stumbles, sways, and sloshes liquid over his hands. 

Naturally, he immediately turns around to snap at the bastard who dared unrest the pirate king- and then he sees that he’s wearing a neat, dark jerkin that instantly denotes him as upper class and his hatred increases exponentially. (And sure, Kokichi wears nice clothes too, but not to  _ port taverns.) _

“Oh,” Kokichi crows, twisting to press the tray of drinks between them, glasses wobbling dangerously close to that neat, rich fabric. “Forgive me, sir, I seem to have been standing in the way of your extremely important business. Please, don’t stop on my account.” He sneers up at him, and then notes two things almost instantly- one, that he’s beautiful. Not important, except that Kokichi has always been weak for pretty men. Two, that he’s also recognizably east Asian- and for some reason, in London, as if that’s where  _ anyone  _ wants to be, let alone an outsider.

Third, a little less instantly but still quick: he’s staring at Kokichi like he’s seen a ghost.

“...Do I know you from somewhere?”

“Y-yes,” the man replies, and then again,  _ “yes.  _ Oh, God.”

His eyes are like an owl’s- startled and round and pretty as anything, framed with thick lashes that serve to give him a sorrowful kind of temperament-   
And Kokichi’s mouth drops open.

_ “Shuichi?” _

“Kokichi?”

Shuichi Saihara, son of Senichi Saihara- just kidding, Shuichi’s father was named  _ Gou _ . Is named. Is he still alive?

It’s been six years. 

“You look just the same,” Shuichi Saihara, son of Gou Saihara, the boy who taught Kokichi how to write close to twelve years ago, says. His mouth opens and closes like a fish on the deck of a ship, those dark eyes blinking rapidly. “Your hair’s longer.”

“Not that much longer.” He’d grown it out a few years back, but Kokichi tended to keep with short, tufty ponytails after one incident involving a seagull and a man who almost became Kokichi’s sole exception to his murder rule. “You still haven’t learned how to comb yours.”

Shuichi Saihara, in a dark jerkin with neat breaches and a cowlick curled off his brow, has the audacity to look insulted by the perfectly correct statement. “That’s coming from you?”

It’s been six years, and they’re standing in some briney little cabin in a port and Kokichi is holding ten glasses of cheap ale and they’re talking about  _ hair. _

“I thought you were dead,” Kokichi says. 

“I thought you were… I don’t know. Not dead. I-” Shuichi cuts himself short, eyes dipping away. He was always nervous when they were younger, but he seems doubly nervous now, reaching up to run bruised fingers through his dark fringe. Kokichi watches the motion enviously, staring at the curve of his jaw. “I didn’t think you could die. Or- I do not, still.”

He still speaks so formally. Kokichi’s never felt so off balance- and then Shuichi smiles at him, small and polite and hesitant, and his whole body plummets like a crash into ice water.

“You moved out of your house,” he rasps, like his voice won’t stick. “I returned.”

“You did?” Shuichi’s eyes flicker with something Kokichi can’t name. His throat bobs when he swallows. “My- my sincerest apologies, Kokichi, I- if I’d known-”

Kokichi greets it with a laugh, because that’s far better than thinking about the crushing disappointment that had struck him, the way he’d waited and asked around and learned that nobody expected the Saihara son to return home any time soon- some family squabble- and that nobody was sure of how to contact him, except through his job in the navy.   
And obviously that was no option, so-   
“I was only in town for such a short while, dearest friend! Don’t bother yourself with it- only mild disappointment before I was unfortunately forced to move on.”    
Shuichi is making a face. Kokichi knows that face. It’s his  _ I don’t believe you  _ face and it’s not one he can handle under these circumstances.    
“I’m based in Portugal, now,” he lies, adjusting the tray of drinks and his smile at the same time. “I’m sure you’ll be delighted to know that everyone is safe. Wealthy, even. We manufacture sweetmeats.”

And, predictably… That’s enough to distract Shuichi completely, his heavy brow lifting and opening into something so earnest that it hurts. “You are? Oh, Kokichi, that’s… wondrous. I couldn’t be happier for you- and for them! Are you with them now?”

“No,” says Kokichi, still holding ten glasses. 

Shuichi, who was always intimidated by Kokichi’s friends, doesn’t question him further. “Oh, I suppose you wouldn’t all travel together. I forget how costly it is, if you don’t own your own vessel.”

“Right!” Kokichi jumps on the offered excuse. “You’re in the navy, aren’t you? Following after your uncle’s footsteps? I’m so terribly- terribly proud, beloved Shuichi, why, I could just… shed a tear!” He performs his sniffling with exaggerated grandeur, unsure if he’s looking for an escape route or anyway to cling to the conversation just a little longer.

“A-” Shuichi’s face shifts. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. Looks down.   
“Yes,” he says, quietly. “I’m- working with my uncle. A c-captain, actually.”

Kokichi tilts his whole form sideways, trying to peer at that hidden expression. “Pardon the intrusion, but you don’t seem delighted by the prospect.”

“Ah.” Shuichi straightens his collar. “It’s a heavy business. There’s a lot of death… I know you don’t like that sort of thing.”

An escape route. Kokichi is looking for an escape route. 

“Tell me you’re not one of those bastard sea dogs who calls themself an explorer,” he says lightly, but he means it. 

Shuichi’s head snaps up- he seems almost relieved by the enquiry. “ _ God,  _ no. I- I’m involved in the succession wars. I spend a lot of time near those territories. I… I’m no pillager.”

Good. That’s good. Kokichi flexes his fingers around the edge of his tray. “...You’re taking care in the war?”

“Of course.”    
_ Lie. _

Lie, lie, lie, why does he look so guilty, why do his eyes keep fixing on the floor, why is the one of them that’s a  _ pirate  _ getting through this conversation fine? (He isn’t guilty and he’ll lie to anyone, childhood partners-in-crime included. He isn’t feeling anything at all, actually.) Shuichi’s eyes are soft as they’ve remained in Kokichi’s memory- but his face is troubled. He’s lying.

But it’s been six years, and Kokichi doesn’t know what to say.

“...I should probably deliver these drinks to my business partners.” He lifts the tray as if to remind them both that it’s there. Shuichi startles. 

“Oh- right. Of course.”

Neither move for a moment. 

“Kokichi-”

“Shuichi-” 

A pause.

Kokichi laughs first, and Shuichi follows. For a moment, the sailor’s face has lightened- six years taken off, and all the worry, too.

The world goes soft and golden, an opened chest of treasure, for just that moment.

Shuichi glances around, nervous even now, and then he reaches out to brush his thumb along the knuckles gripping the drink-tray until they turn white.

“Stay out of trouble, Kokichi,” he murmurs.

Kokichi laughs, and it aches, and he lies. “When have I ever?”

\--

_ You meant so much more to me than I was ever able to express. _ _   
_ _ Your friendship kept me alive. _ _   
_ _ Do you know how reassuring it was to know I wasn’t alone? I wasn’t the only one? _ _   
_ There were a hundred things he had wanted to say, ten thousand words soaking his mouth until it was overflowing, slack-jawed, useless. Countless things to address, things he’d spend the past seven years obsessing over, hoping for, but he couldn’t say any of them.

If he had, he would have ended up confessing something awful like  _ please don’t leave me again-  _ but that wasn’t an option at all.

Kokichi Ouma was a merchant in Portugal and Shuichi Saihara was a liar and a pirate with papers.

“Saihara!”

Shuichi, leaning against the side of his ship, glanced up from his papers- back down- and then up again, startled. “Momota?”

Because- he’d thought he was mistaken at first, but nobody else in the navy had eyes that creased like that, or a beard in that color, and certainly  _ no  _ officer wore their coat falling off one shoulder like that privateer.

Captain Momota crossed the docks with his arms spread, beaming at Shuichi like they were old friends. Behind him, a smaller figure followed, eyes lowered, their hair cut in a choppy and very unfashionable page cut. “Saihara, it’s a marvel to see you! As soon as I heard you were leading this quest, I knew it’d be just the right work to pick up.”

“I- well, ah, thank you- what do you mean, work?”

Momota laughs, the sound booming through the air, and claps a hand on Saihara’s shoulder. “I’ll be under your guidance, this time! First mate.” 

Shuichi blinked, then looked back down at his papers. He had requested an increase in crew size- he’d changed vessels for the voyage, and he’d need the manpower to uphold that. He’d also sent out a request for men with combat experience, and had vetted most of the newcomers himself- privateering didn’t tend to attract the most… moral, of workers, and especially if they’d seen battle before, Shuichi wanted to know who he was working with. (He couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating than a mutiny. At that point, he’d march  _ himself  _ off the plank.)   
But his uncle had said he’d recommended some people specifically, so… Momota would make sense. Shuichi had travelled with him before, shadowing him in his early days of privateering, and he was a good man, a good captain, and wicked with a sword.   
There was just one question Shuichi had. “Erm… Momota, aren’t you a commander yourself?” (Commander, not captain, because although the crew might address him as such, Shuichi does not deserve the title.)

Momota winces, reaching for the back of his neck and adjusting the collar there. “Ah. Yeah, about that.” He glanced sideways at his companion, who gave him a dark look Shuichi couldn’t read at all, and then gave a sheepish laugh. “I may have been caught with false papers.”

“With-” Shuichi blanched, feeling physically ill at the thought. “What? How?”

Your papers- your marque- were the only thing separating privateers from the pirates Shuichi was quick to condemn. Both morally, and… legally. Without them, you’d be tried for piracy, which was an almost certain death. Shuichi had recurring nightmares involving the loss of his papers, or the sudden realization that there was a mistake somewhere and the marque was false all along.   
But Momota laughed again, like it wasn’t a major issue at all. “Well. They did intend to damn me, but I plead the court my dismal case… And I’ve only ever acted in ordinance with the crown, consorting with the Spaniards, and I’ve brought in enough riches to quell the avarice of any man who set sight of them!” He winked. “And let’s say I’ve got a few friends who were willing to pull a few strings, and I’ll get my papers after this voyage.”

Distantly, Shuichi wondered if one of those friends was his uncle, looking out for the few other noble immigrants in the navy. 

He nodded in response, setting some of his nerves aside. “So after this it’s off to the Spanish war, then?”

“Of course!” Momota puffed his chest like a lion, coat slipping further from his shoulder. “They’ll need me to help gap those trade routes.”

“I see.” Shuichi nodded, giving the man- his first mate now, apparently- a brief smile as he pocketed the papers he was holding and stepped from the ship. “Would you like to run through the layout of the ship, then? She’s an unusual briganite, customized for the task at hand.”

“You’re painfully formal, Saihara,” Momota replied, shaking his head. “May I call you Shuichi?”

Shuichi blinked. (For just a moment, he heard someone else echoing his name, but he shook the thought away.) “I suppose.”

“Marvellous! And you must call me Kaito, in return.” Momota- Kaito- reached out to grip his hand, giving it a shake so firm Shuichi’s whole body felt unsteadied. “Oh! And this is Ma...ko. Mako Harukawa. I picked him up on one of my previous crews… can’t do anything without him anymore! You’ll never find a man more trustworthy!” Momota’s eyes shift away from Shuichi’s. His grip tightens a little. The Harukawa beside them stares intently at his own boots.

Shuichi glances between the pair. 

He decides not to question whatever it is just yet. 

“Shall we board?” He asks the pair, and Kaito seems relieved for the excuse, hovering at Shuichi’s side as they move for the stairs leading to the main deck.   
He can’t help from glancing back, though, watching as Harukawa climbs after them, adjusting his loose shirt. 

\--

_ You were one of the only people who made me feel human.  _

_ I would have died a dozen times over if it weren’t for your care, you know? _

_ I hope you know I sometimes thought we were tied by fate.  _

The king of pirates liked to tell stories about himself- his mother, a mermaid, his father a pirate before him with buried treasure set to inherit. Himself- a selkie, searching for his stolen skin. He tells his crew- and his enemies- that he can breathe underwater, and many an enemy has tried to test that particular fact. 

Many names, many stories. That is the only way to make a life for yourself, he’s decided. There’s a lot of good stories to tell- whether they’re true or not only matters to the muse.    
He didn’t tell any of the realer stories, because if the heart aches too freely, it bleeds from your mouth, and if Kokichi had bled it would have sounded like  _ please come with me.  _

Shuichi Saihara was an officer in the Royal Navy and Kokichi was a liar and a pirate on the run.

“Captain?”

The crooked pirate king shifted, glancing beneath him to the rigging and the person hanging from it. “Aye?”

Ace- one of his favored few, who lived in the rigging like they were born there- half monkey, half imp, swinging from the crows nest and cutting and retying ropes with wicked efficiency. They were the sort of person who seemed born for adventure- and foreign to the idea of comfort, as was evidenced by every new member who had to realize they only bathed in the salt water. Kokichi was in their place right now, hanging from the crow’s nest. “There’s a dance in the galley- King and Queen said they’d save a song for you. Mioda’s on the lyre, too.”

Kokichi, perched like a crow himself, shifts again and lifts his eyes upward to the stars. “I’ll meet you all after I’ve charted our best course.” He taps a finger against the map draped over his lap, as if he were actually charting anything at all. “A great pirate once told me to never attend a party before the attendants are too drunk to rob you.”   
He could hear the dance- the sound of the accordion reaching for the sky, twisting up from beneath the deck in keys that are plaintive and joyful all at once. Kokichi loves the sound of his friends and their music more than he loves life, 

Ace laughs in response to the joke, and Kokichi laughs with them. “Don’t linger too long, Captain. We’re awaiting your company.”

“As always,” Kokichi says, fondly.

“As always,” they repeat. They give a last salute before releasing their hold on a rope and dropping completely out of sight. Kokichi leans over the side of the nest - _ just in case-  _ but as always, his pirates are unstoppable, and Ace is dancing down the ropes like an acrobat, all heft and sway. 

He props his chin in his hand and leans out over the edge of the nest.

Shuichi Saihara. A captain in the Queen’s Navy, hm? Kokichi was never a lover of the military by any standard, but the soldiers throwing themselves into a pointless war between two nations are a little more respectable than the ones sailing the world and taking everything they see fit to steal. 

Of course  _ Shuichi Saihara  _ would find himself in the succession wars. His crew probably adore him. He probably has thirty women who love him ardently and don’t understand why he won’t- can’t- marry. (Not the way Kokichi did.) Shuichi Saihara, naval artillery. Direction. He’ll probably be an admiral one day, the kind of bureaucrat Kokichi  _ really  _ hates.

Everything Kokichi had expected for him. Shuichi was smart, and sequestered but not naive. Kind, but not stupidly so. Brilliant. Engaging. 

It isn’t fair, really. He’d have made a  _ great  _ pirate- but Kokichi can’t ever see his moral code fitting into that. He doubts Shuichi would be all too delighted to hear about Kokichi’s little Pacific drop offs. 

The pirate king laughs, swinging his feet from the crows nest and kicking them out. Good god, the expression on that man’s face if he found out- he’d never been a fan of petty theft, even that of his best friend, but he’d made exceptions because Kokichi “didn’t have any other choice”. (He was so stoic, for such a small child. Kokichi had thought he was mysterious and charismatic- and told him that he was awkward and stiff.) 

So, grand theft of vessels and gold and arms would likely be looked down upon by his lovely sailor. 

(He wonders, just briefly, if Shuichi would be willing to extend the lack of choice argument to Kokichi’s situation now. Maybe, if he were anything but a naval officer, he might find some sympathy in himself.)   
The thought is indulgent but in an unpleasant sort of way, so Kokichi dismisses it and turns his eyes to the glitter of the black sea, instead. 

He’s always had plenty of choice- spoiled for it. Kokichi was never safe enough to let himself get tangled up in fear for the future. He looks ahead, plans intricately- he’s not charting their course, and Ace knows that, because Kokichi charts every course with them ahead of time, and adjusts accordingly as they sail.

There’s nothing more pathetic than a pirate who pities himself. Perhaps the lifestyle is difficult to escape, and often short, and often one is forced into it against their own will- but Kokichi wasn’t, and neither were his oldest crewmembers. And the members of his crew that were- they know their time on his ship as a time of prosperity. 

The pirate king props his elbows up against the side of the nest again, peering down at the deck. Most of the crew are beneath deck, dancing and eating and playing, but you can never leave a briganite unattended. (A ship is like a woman, they say, and usually then have to bite their tongues from the force of Kokichi’s female crew.)

He squints down at the few crewmates milling- managing sails and stripes and the steering of the vessel, one figure mapping the skies, the few others hanging from the rigging. 

The sound of the accordion wails through the night again.   
“Ohhh,” he calls out, the night still enough that he can be heard through the lack of wind. “The work was hard and the wages low…” 

Kokichi’s never claimed to be a good singer, but that doesn’t matter in the sea, even when his voice can’t reach the rich notes he’s heard other captains brag about. It doesn’t matter on his ship.

The second his last note wavers into wind, he’s met with response, laughter in the voices above deck as they chorus in response.  _ “Leave her, Johnny, leave her…” _

Kokichi bit back a grin, shifting to sit more comfortably as he croons to his crew. “I guess it’s time for us to go…”

The same call and response, and the same shiver up his spine with the sound of his pirates singing back.  _ “Leave her, Johnny, leave her…” _

“Leave her, Johnny, leave her!” He cries out, pushing himself onto his feet, his whole body humming with the bass of the song as his crew join for the chorus. They raise in volume, purring through the night.  _ “Oh, leave her, Johnny, leave her! Oh, the voyage is done and the winds don’t blow- and it’s time for us to leave her!” _

There’s a pause, in the music beneath- and Kokichi wonders if they’ve disturbed them, listening as he calls the next line. “Oh, I thought I heard the old man say…”

But when the crew chorus again in the next response, the sound is coming from beneath the ship, pulled up from the galley itself and accompanied by the accordion- the fiddle, too, if he strains his ears, and the lyre somewhere beneath that, playing together into the night.

_ “Leave her, Johnny, leave her...” _

\--

It’s been two weeks of travel now, making their way in a curve along the Atlantic. They’ve already stopped once, to check for news of mail, but they made up the time with a smooth wind and Kaito’s expert navigation along a cliff-face shortcut too dangerous to make it into official routes.

Two weeks of travel, one confirmation that they’re on the right track, and they’re drifting through charted waters, waiting for expected ships.

“We’re making good progress. Tell the helmsman to continue due east.”

“Aye, captain.”

Shuichi really wished they’d stop calling him that. They never did, though- it was his ship.

“Saihara.”    
He turns to look at Harukawa, standing in his hunched stance, choppy hair drifting over his face. The sailor holds out a spyglass emphatically, jerking his chin to port. “Ship spotted.” A pause. “Sir,” he tacks on, like he’d forgotten the etiquette.

He takes the glass and raises it, moving to peer to their side. True to Harukawa’s word, a ship drifts in from the sun, the clouds around it biting at its sails. It’s printed with a French navy flag- and it looks built for the navy, too, a briganite with sails open to the wind. By all accounts, it’s unremarkable- it’s not unusual to see French troops passing to and from their colonies along this trade route.

When you’ve spent the last three years of your life hunting for pirates, though, any ship directing its course toward your own makes you immediately wary.

“Tell the crew to ready cannons but only fire on signal,” he tells him. Harukawa gives a sharp nod before disappearing below deck- Shuichi beckons Momota over, instead. 

“Shuichi?” 

“Would you watch the ship? You’ve been privateering longer than I. I’d appreciate your wisdom.” Shuichi’s never been fond of issuing orders- he’s less fond of it with people he used to take orders  _ from.  _ Kaito’s proved to be a comfort throughout the voyage, though- although he listens to everything Shuichi says with cheer and ease, he appears to think he’s the one in charge half the time. Shuichi finds the quality endearing- he’s always been drawn to bold personalities.   
It makes things a little easier.

Kaito nods, taking his own spyglass and squinting out at it. “Looks like an ordinary briganite t’me,” he replies, cocking his head to admire it. “Too far to make out much- they’re coming in fast though, aren’t they?”

Shuichi nods, his chest twisting with a beat of anxiety. He lifts his glass again and squints out at the form of the ship- there’s something unusual about it that he can’t quite place- a little smaller than their own vessel- likely manning a crew of 75, at the maximum. “I… hm.” They continue to advance, not slowing. “Let’s try directing our course away from them.”

Kaito nods, moving to issue the command (another blessing of his presence) and Shuichi continues staring at the ship. 

_ Oh,  _ he realizes, at about the same time their own ship begins to divert starboard.  _ They have an extra pair of cannons- on a boat that size? _

He’s not the most familiar with the French navy, but he’s confident that isn’t standard. 

It doesn’t matter, though, because as they try to turn away, the ship picks up speed and turns with them- and that’s all the confirmation they need.   
The raising of their flag- black, with a pair of white and red diamonds, swords pointing out from them- is only solidification of the obvious.

“Cannons ready!” Shuichi yells, but they’re already ahead of them, turning into each other with frightening, almost impossible speed. “All soldiers on deck!”

A cannon fires. The impact hits their ship with enough force that the crack is like a thunderbolt.

And then all hell breaks lose.

Shuichi’s not afraid of death, and for all his faults as a captain, the second the pirates board he’s jumping the railing of his helm, gripping the rigging to swing to the center of the action. 

They’re fast- swarming on like fleas to a dog, biting away at ropes and barrels of gunpowder with sword and pistol. His men are fast, too, responding with quick fingers and quicker hands, and only seconds pass before they’re locked in combat, still more swinging on with yells of triumph.

Shuichi’s familiar with the speed of battle the same way he’s familiar with the expanse of a map- the way so much is happening that there’s no choice but to happen with it. He kicks a boarding pirate from the side of the boat as he swings down, meets another with heel of his boot and the edge of his elbow, strikes a line through a pair of others, meets Kaito’s eye for a nod of understanding as he races to the forecastle.    
Reach the bowsprit. Reassess positions. Call up the cannons.

His race is interrupted every few steps by another combatant moving forward- he knocks them back, feints back to trip them up, slashes at chests and swordarms and forces them back. One to his left, and then another two at his right- he pushes them into each other with an angled thrust, but someone drops from above with a call of  _ “Captain!”  _ and that momentary glance over his shoulder is enough to have him narrowly avoiding a sudden swipe for his gut, darting back once again. 

For every pulse of his heart, Shuichi’s mind makes twelve assessments and six movements. He’s caught up with it, adrenaline puppeteering him like he doesn’t have a choice in the frenzy of it- his mind whirs still as he backs up, even as his previous assailant turns to avoid a sudden shot from starboard- he needs just a minute, just a second to center himself-

The back of his shoulder hits something. Shuichi twists around and strikes before he knows what he’s doing.

His cutlass crosses someone else’s. He looks up at the new opponent, and-

Violet eyes, narrowed and then wide, wide, a braid tucked behind his ear, the same curls around his face as always, older and younger and focused and checkered and- 

“You-” Shuichi splutters.

“You!” Kokichi Ouma gasps.

There’s a moment- barely anything, because in battle a single second passes in years, and because the motion never stops, not the rocking of the sea, not the clashing of swords, not the beating of his heart- where their eyes meet and neither of them look away.

A rope is cut and a yell of  _ “heave, ho!”  _ echoes through the open ship, and everything tilts as a barrel comes rolling toward them.

They both jump, momentarily distracted, swords lifted- and then, remembering themselves, come to meet again at the same instinct. Their swords clash like the teeth of rocks around the tightest channels, like sharks against lifeboats, and Shuichi can’t tell if he’s horrified Kokichi moved to strike him or thankful beyond God that he blocked Shuichi’s instinctive blow.

He glances down, the pressure of their blades like a forge.    
Kokichi’s coat flutters in the wind- the dark edges turning over to show the chessboard pattern underneath.

Shuichi withdraws and instantly has to block a second blow- aimed for his face. Kokichi’s eyes glitter like they did when they were playing a particularly exciting game.

"What are you  _ doing  _ here?” Shuichi hisses, horrified, footwork tripping backwards as Kokichi jabs at his stomach like a fencer, dramatic and foolish and easy to fend away. “I thought you were- in Portugal, trading imported sweets!”

Kokichi seemed more surprised to see him on the streets than he does in the middle of combat- but Kokichi never let Shuichi know what he was thinking, did he? “What does it look like I'm doing?” He challenges, switching to the left to take a cleave at Shuichi’s side- he parries the blow and pushes him forward, and Kokichi- the  _ pirate-  _ rolls his eyes. “Have you never seen a pirate before? Did the ugly, motley crew you’ve chosen to run with rot your good sense? I heard foolishness is contagious!” Another angled strike that Shuichi meets with a clash, Kokichi grunting slightly in exertion. “Perhaps you should look into that. Wouldn't want you catching sickness and infecting me!"   
He punctuates the statement by leaping onto another toppled barrel, trying to use the high ground to reach Shuichi’s neck. Shuichi pushes the blade aside and follows him onto it, meeting with another strike, and a second, wavering back and forth like a tight-rope act, each pushed to the edge of tipping over before pressing forward again, and for a moment it seems as if Shuichi might be able to press his enemy over the side, when-

The ship rocks, again, and the shot of a cannon booms around them. Everything tips- the both jump, once again moving away to right themselves; Shuichi pressed to the base of the rigging and Kokichi flying into the side of the deck. For a moment, again, every sailor is clinging on for life, and then he meets Kokichi’s eye and they’re charging into each other again, the chip of metal on metal sinking into each other.

"I never took you for a fighter, Shuichi." He says it like it’s some kind of compliment, wry and pleased and  _ delicious  _ on his tongue, almost purred. Shuichi narrows his eyes and strikes to catch him at the waist with the edge of his blade. Kokichi parries.

"I've been practicing." 

"I can tell! Unfortunately, it won't give you enough leeway to beat me.” And, oh, there’s that vanity- the arrogance Shuichi remembers being  _ infuriated  _ by for hours on hours when they were younger and Kokichi won at chess despite Shuichi’s hours of tutoring and him still unable to read- “I am renowned for my swordsmanship over--" 

Shuichi lunges at him, overextending and forcing Kokichi to step right. He can’t see like this, but he can  _ feel _ the motion, the rush of air, the pirate lifting his cutlass to take advantage of the movement for a quick blow to Shuichi’s side. It’s the exact kind of cheap shot Kokichi would love to take, which is why Shuichi doesn’t even need to look to plant his feet and meet it with a sudden guard that sends the pirate’s balance stumbling.   
They both right their footwork, but Shuichi twists just a little faster, flicking outward with his sword right between Kokichi’s eyes. There’s a moment where the pirate blinks, something like fear (if Kokichi ever feels fear) flickering across his expression-   
Before Shuichi’s blade meets the brim of his hat and flicks it from his brow to get caught in the wind, almost playful.

"Woah!" Kokichi’s eyes are still wide. For a moment his sword lags.

"Not enough leeway, you said?" 

With his head clear, Shuichi can track the exact expression that crosses Kokichi’s face- surprise, almost delighted in the force of it, and then a twist into a pout. “Now that’s cruelty, plain and simple.”

Shuichi moves forward again, aiming for a strike against his sword arm- painful but not permanent, temporarily incapacitating- but Kokichi’s other hand flicks out before he can get there, and Shuichi is met with a handful of dust pouring into his eyes.

He splutters, striking out on instinct, he had no chance at all to guard himself as Kokichi whips the flat side of his blade against his thigh- a tease. "I s’pose you got lucky! Miserable shame that you couldn't keep up your streak."

Shuichi, blinking sand out of his eyes, is still for half of a heartbeat. "That.” He feels like a child again, like yet another of Kokichi’s stupid tricks has got his way. “That wasn't fair. You can't do that." 

"Hm?” As soon as Shuichi has regained anything like vision, Kokichi advances again, and Shuichi’s forced to meet his thrusts with clumsy blocks. “Well, I can. And I did! You should have expected it- you're dealing with a _ pirate _ after all.” He sounds so pleased with himself. It’s infuriating.

"Cut the crap,” Shuichi hisses,as if he’s afraid of someone overhearing. “Why are you doing this?" 

Kokichi laughs as they circle each other, dancing in some kind of child’s game- only their swords are real, and the ship is rocking, and Shuichi doesn’t think he’s ever felt quite this alive. "Is it really so hard to believe? Did you think I was-" Kokichi drops his voice into something sinister, the smile shifting to a sort of smirk Shuichi had never seen before. "-some sort of good person? Someone like you?"

"Maybe I didn't expect to meet you again at the end of my sword! Do you know what my job is? What I'm going to have to do to you?" He grits it out against his will, meeting a lunge with a careful sidestep. Shuichi’s heart hurts with every heavy beat- but for every beat, Kokichi strikes at him three times and he has to meet each one with strikes of his own.

"Ah, how scary! The thing about that, Shuichi, is that you'd have to catch me first. And I don’t get caught. Ever. Not by demanding Spaniards-” A feint to Shuichi’s left- “Or by boring Frenchmen-” A strike to his right- “Or by uppity English  _ privateers  _ who think they can get the better of me. You’ve been following us for  _ such  _ a long time now, Shuichi. Did you really think we wouldn’t notice?” 

Shuichi grits his teeth, falls for a feint and earns a strike at his cheek with it- a slash that’s so light it’s almost playful. Mocking. He retaliates by sending a lock of hair flying from Kokichi’s skull. “I did expect your tricks, _ le diable a damier, _ ” he points out, guarding an obvious blow and forcing the pirate’s footwork back- proving his point.

“Aha, so you did! But not all of them.” For an incredibly quick moment, their blades press together with such force that their bodies come together as well, curved edges snagging against one another as their shoulders press- 

And Kokichi jerks his head over his shoulder. “That would be my calling, captain  _ Saihara.” _

Shuichi learned a long time ago never to give Kokichi’s misdirects a second glance, let alone a first, so he blocks the next strike easily and lunges forward with a few of his own. Kokichi laughs in delight, twisting to aim for Shuichi’s sides, darting up against him and away- dragonfly, playful, poised. He sees why they call him a devil. 

Shuichi presses forth, though, and he was always better at combat when they played together, and he’s better now, still, because Kokichi has his tricks but Shuichi’s first instinct is always to assess. 

They meet again and again, and he realizes, seconds and years through the battle, that he’s forcing Kokichi up to the side of the boat. 

Kokichi seems to realize it, too, trying harder with his feints, taking advantage of his speed to try to get to the side. He pulls a dagger from his thigh and holds it tight to him as Shuichi presses in- so he responds in wide strikes, lengthways and deliberate and heavy, enough that Kokichi has no choice but to meet each one and draw himself back and back until-

The checkered coat hits the side of the ship. Shuichi points his blade to his chin. 

Kokichi’s panting, he realizes, his cheeks flushed with exertion, and for a moment the wave of nostalgia is so strong it knocks Shuichi harder than the cannon shots. 

“Call off your men,” he whispers. “I won’t kill you, Kokichi.”

“Hm.” The king of pirates tilts his head to the side, pushing his pulse into the blade, staring at Shuichi’s mouth. “You may regret that sentiment in a few moments.”

Shuichi doesn’t have time to respond before he really is knocked off his feet. 

He stares up as he’s falling back, and watches Kokichi, arm hooked around the railing, both feet off the ground, falling back, too.

_ He kicked me,  _ Shuichi realizes, the pain in his stomach settling in at about the same time Kokichi grips a rope and swings overboard.  _ What a dirty cheat. _

“Fall out!” Kokichi crows, swinging between the ships like a dancer about to take flight, slipping elegantly with one boot extended above his head. “Take this as a lesson, and a warning, for your crown!”

The pirates roar in chorused agreement as they follow him out, some swinging back, others leaping from the rigging, others racing up the raising bowsprit. They’re like a group of performers, arms full of- arms full of-

“Cut them off!” Shuichi yells after, just a beat too late.

The crew swarms to stop the ship, capturing pieces of it with further rope, firing close-range cannon shots that should be enough to have it sinking- but after taking one in return, like a warning, Shuichi shuts that down and races for his first mate.

“What did they take?” He demands, watching Kaito wipe blood from his lower arm as he exits the captain’s quarters. And then- catching another sailor by the arm- “monitor where they go from here, but don’t follow.”

“Ah- most things?” Kaito struggles. “I- come take a look. Everything came from your quarters, so-”

“A barrel of gunpowder, too,” Harukawa reports, hastily adjusting the rips in his shirt as he rejoins them. “They rolled it up the gangplank.”

_ “Merde,”  _ Shuichi curses, sending another frantic glance to where the pirates- Kokichi- are disappearing into the distance. “Okay, take me.”

His cabin- more of an office- is utterly destroyed when they enter. Drawers open, writing desk left bare, scrolls and books and glasses stolen. Vases broken, parchment and letters scattered on the floor. Every compass, every hourglass, globe, astrolabe, and map is missing from the room. 

Shuichi crosses over to a cupboard and withdraws his safe. It’s unlocked.   
His marque is missing.

For a moment, he thinks he forgets to breathe. 

“Saihara?”

“They-” He shuts his eyes. It’s alright. The papers are gone, but he’s been commissioned by his own uncle. Kaito might be in trouble, but- that’s not worth worrying about now. The papers are one thing. (Everything.) The crew is another. “They’ve taken all our navigation equipment.”

“They intend to strand us!” Kaito curses, pounding his fist against the empty desk. “God damn them all- they’ll have us maddened before we die!”

Harukawa sighed, brushing back a lock of his hair. “No, they won’t. We’re not far from land- a few days east and we’ll be back at your cliffs, Kaito, and we can navigate that by eye alone. From there we stick to land ‘till we’ve made it to a port, and we reorder supplies and inform the navy of their plot-”

“No,” Shuichi says, something bubbling in his chest. Kokichi’s face plays on repeat in his mind- the cheap trick, the gunpowder, the way he’d saluted as he swung backwards and fell onto his own boat, as they sailed off. The missing marque, of no use to  _ anyone  _ but himself. “No, we’ll lose too much time that way. There’ll be no way to get back on their trail until they’re noted docking somewhere.”

“So what do you suggest?” Harukawa argues, arms crossed. “We make our way by stars and sky alone?”

He turns to Kaito, firmly slotting his cutlass back in its scabbard. “Go above deck and tell them to pursue their ship. Keep a distance- they’ll be looking behind them, but not expecting us. As long as we remain within view of our spyglasses, we’ll be fine.”

“Of course, captain.” The sailor bows with a grin, then charges back up the stairs, already barking orders about how they’ll chase down the coward bastards- and then their mothers, too.

Harukawa turns to Shuichi, inflamed. “So what’s your plan? We follow them leagues behind until they notice us- or until there’s a storm and we’re separated- or until they lead us in circles and strike again- or until one of the cannon wound springs a leak- or until there’s a heatwave and the provisions rot faster than we’re ready for? If we lose sight of their ship, we’re done for.”

“Not if we have navigation tools,” he tells him, crossing over to the desk and reaching under it. The drawer is already picked open (of  _ course,)  _ but the empty papers inside were left behind, at least. Shuichi reaches for a quill.

“We don’t  _ have  _ navigation tools. Not anymore.”

Shuichi thinks about Kokichi, and about losing to him at chess and beating him in cards, and in fencing, and how his fondest memory of childhood is a pirate, the sort of person Shuichi’s held as the  _ one level  _ he has yet to sink to- and the sort of person he is now, isn’t he, without his marque, without his papers-   
_ "I never took you for a fighter, Shuichi." _

Something in him burns. He looks up across the room at Harukawa.

“We’re privateers, not sailors. If they take something from us-” he pauses to dip his quill in ink, marks a rapid map across the desk, and thinks of the king of pirates and his checkered smile and the theft of every vessel Kokichi’s seen fit to rob-   
“We take it back.”

**Author's Note:**

> ummmmmmmmm i feel like ive forgotten something  
> im on tumblr kofi and instagram @unseeliekey!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! thank u for experiencing my brainrot with me


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